


it's gotta hurt to be called livin'

by MagpieQueen



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, On Niles' behalf mostly, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Protectiveness, Rating May Change, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, They are all gonna be fine and loved and cared for, emotional whiplash, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieQueen/pseuds/MagpieQueen
Summary: "I was never meant to be alive, Hank. Not like this." His words are muffled against Hank's hoodie."But you are, Connor." Hank smooths down his hair again and then kisses the top of his head, almost absently. "You are wonderfully, breathtakingly alive."---Connor learns what it means to be alive, and that sometimes things need hurt for them to be worth it. A life worth living is one of those things.It gets better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shurely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shurely/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor doesn't know how to deal with the RK900 model once he's found in the sublevels of CyberLife's tower. He turns to Hank for help.

  
Markus’ revolution comes and goes, changing and reshaping itself into something bigger and better, the consequences of it shaking the foundations of the world, of the definition of life itself and what means to truly be alive.

It’s terrifying and awe-inspiring to everyone involved. Almost everyone, anyways.

————————

The first few months are awkward for Connor.

It seems like everyone is being extremely careful to do no wrong and it’s excruciating to watch them try to navigate through the subtleties of dealing with another sentient race.

“Like dealing with aliens,” he heard someone on the TV say. “Imagine they dropped from the sky tomorrow, asking us to treat them like equals.”

It’s ridiculous.

At least Hank remains the same, if fonder to him, now. They had survived the whole ordeal together, and ever since it had been very hard for the two of them (not that they would care to admit it) to stay away from each other longer than a day or two; even then, they always texted about anything and everything, Connor having to suffer through Hank’s truly horrendous texting habits and outdated millennial humour references.

And when it's one of those days and things get too bad, the tension unbearable in Detroit, Hank helps Connor to feel anchored, safe, and in turn Connor does the same for him. It works. They make it work.

It’s very nice. It’s nicer still when Hank manages to sneak Connor back to the DPD to talk to Fowler and they both convince him of how _extremely_ beneficial it would be to have him back at the station, even if it can’t be completely official until the new laws for android employment are passed. The grey areas in the law (or complete lack thereof) are more than good enough for Connor until then.

And it’s great, because Hank is there with him, but it’s also nerve wracking and excruciatingly painful at times because he’s a deviant ( ~~alive~~ ) now and police work can be extremely taxing, specially to someone so new to life.

Ups and downs.

“It’s how it be,” Hank tells him with a sigh, but rubs his back all the same, “- in this bitch of an earth. Ups and downs.”

There’s a lot more downs, for a very long while, and their job becomes a grueling, thankless thing. Not that it ever was anything but. The change is still noticeable, and that change is violence. Unadulterated, uncontrolled violence against androids, specially the softer ones, the kind ones, those that never hesitated to trust a human. It’s horrendous, but it had been expected. While the androids and their plight had garnered an incredible amount of support and the general public had a great opinion on them, the opposition inevitably became nastier and louder, taking advantage of the slow process of getting them rights and proper humane care and space.

It’s an awful thing, and it wears them thin until all they can do is sit side by side and stare at the TV without really looking, exhaustion bad enough that even Connor seems affected, tired and morose; but together they work through it, through every single case. They give chase to the ones slow enough to get caught; they investigate and eventually find those who had thought they had gotten away with it. They get them with whatever they can get their hands on, unwilling to let them go free because of _fucking stupid ex post facto laws._

And then they wait. And they wait.

Markus does good by his kind, and the new laws and regulations that are approved are nothing if not extremely satisfactory for Connor.

_Detective_ Connor.

He gets the job the very same day the law passes, Fowler giving him a pat on the back and a _It’s good to officially have you with us, Detective Connor,_ and with the job he gets an actual salary, some money extended to him before his payday, and a tiny little apartment that he can afford to rent that he _loves._

But that’s not what’s best:

It’s the nicest feeling in the world to discover they had been fearing for nothing and that they can give the victims proper justice— to all of them, both dead and alive. It’s slow work, but Connor is nothing if not thorough when analyzing and categorizing evidence, and he works tirelessly with Hank to leave each and every case as clean and open and shut as possible.

They celebrate together the night they close their first official case together, a warm, slightly awkward affair for both of them (- _too many damned emotions,_ Hank had said, later pretending he had gotten something in his eye instead of admitting he had cried a bit-) but heartfelt and delightful nonetheless.

It takes them a while, but they settle eventually. The city settles with them, and things, well. They get better.

They do, right until they don’t.

Detroit’s CyberLife tower gets handed over to the Jericho team for them to oversee the proper care of their kind and use the technology that birthed them to improve their quality of life—something sorely needed by many, who can now access proper medical care and modifications to get the chance to feel more like themselves.

After all, it’s unsettling for many to see their own faces _everywhere_.

And it’s good, because with a dedicated android team there are several updates and changes rolling out for everyone if they so please.

The tower is huge and CyberLife’s executives had refused to release all its secrets, so it takes the Jericho team a long while to go through it in its monstrous entirety. But they do, eventually.

One month, three days and fourteen hours later Markus ends up finding one finished RK-900 model amidst hundreds and hundreds of parts ready to recreate him, deep in the bowels of the tower, uncalibrated and asleep, but ready all the same. Overflowing with the potential to be alive.

He has Connor’s face, and so they call him, ask him to come over, tell him that maybe he could help, because life isn’t an easy thing to accept for many newly awoken androids, and that RK, well. He looks like he was made to be something terrifying to behold when in all his glory: he's clearly been built for violence and coercion, lacking, even while asleep, the softness that Connor is known for. He’s bulkier and slightly taller, with a thick neck and a strong jawline.

When he wakes, his eyes are the colour of silver and steel, and he looks more a machine than every one of the deactivated carcasses in the tower. Connor tries not to hold that against him.

They talk, and Connor tries his best to connect at some level, but even when interfacing it proves to be extremely difficult. RK-900, is, well. He’s not good with emotions and doesn't process them well, pale blue LED light undisturbed like a glacial lake.

Connor calls him Nines to shorten his designation, but RK-900 finds that to be senseless. They end up settling over the name Niles, which sounds very close to what Connor had named him at first, but he very wisely chooses not to comment anything on that.

It’s confusing. It’s like looking at a mirror image, but not quite. It unsettles him. RK- _Niles_ was made to be infinitely better at everything he had done— he explained so himself, tone monotone and bored, very matter of fact: “ _where you failed, I was made to excel.”_ His words sting, and it shouldn’t hurt the way that it does, but it’s his fault anyways, since it had been his mistakes to make everyone believe they needed someone better than he ever was.

He's not lying to anyone. It really hurts, and his hasty retreat doesn't go unnoticed by anyone in the building.

————————

Connor ends up showing unannounced at Hank’s that night, needing his company like he never has before. He rings the bell on Hank’s door and he can vaguely hear him shuffling over the loud sound of the sports channel he must’ve been watching.

The door opens and Hank smiles when he realizes it’s him. Connor analyzes his micro-expressions, feels warm inside when the tiniest of smiles passes through Hank’s lips, when his eyes crinkle a little bit with it.

But his LED has been a steady yellow ever since he left the Cyberlife tower, and Hank only needs to take one look at him to worry, brow furrowing, and gently maneuvering him inside his home.

“What’s wrong, Connor?”

He’s close and Connor takes half a second for himself to scan him: he’s warm and clean, wearing comfortable clothes—a DPD hoodie and loose, cotton sweatpants— and he’s completely sober. It makes him so happy that his chest pangs with it for a moment.

“Con?”

“I didn’t-” He hesitates. He doesn’t know how to begin to explain what he’s feeling, “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

Hank looks him up and down, one focused sweep of his eyes, and nods. Whatever he finds beyond the light on his temple must worry him; it makes his face looks gentler, and with that same gentleness he holds him by the shoulder and takes him to his sofa.

“Sumo!” He calls while sitting next to Connor’s right, keeping very little distance to him and reaching for the remote to lower the volume of the TV to an indistinguishable murmur. “Com’ere!”

The Saint Bernard trots to the living room and just like his owner he seems to just _know,_ making a beeline towards Connor and going to him far more affectionately that Hank ever is with him ( ~~sadly~~ ), excitedly jumps to his left and licks his face repeatedly, wagging his tail, until Connor relents and huffs out a laugh, squishing his cheeks and scratching behind his ears to kiss him back repeatedly. It's wonderful, and that only makes the dog happier than he already is, judging by his tail. Connor really, really likes him.

It makes him laugh again.

Connor believes he understands now the term _emotional whiplash_ , now. It takes a while for Sumo to settle after that, but he ends up resting his head on top of Connor’s thighs, tired with the sudden change of pace. Hank doesn’t seem to mind one bit, smiling fondly at them whenever Connor steals a glance his way, making his chest tighten just a bit more each time they hold gazes.

Connor stares back at Sumo, pats his head perched on his lap, and curls his fingers in the hair of the nape of his head, digging gently and massaging the folds of skin and fur there, earning himself a huff from the dog, who presses insistently against his legs, demanding for more.

“I met my brother,” he starts. It’s as good as anything at that point, since there are very few words he can imagine using in that situation that fit.

Hank frowns. “What?”

“I don’t know what else to call him.” Connor gets out, and continues staring intently at Sumo, as if the pattern of his fur held all the answers to his questions, “He’s… An RK-900 model built after me. Markus found him today and called me up to the tower so I could… be there, when he awoke.”

He walks Hank through his motions that evening, detached and a little bit afraid to put too much emotion in the way he describes things; he’s not sure himself of how and what he’s feeling. He tells him, word by word, what Niles had said to him in the corner of that sterile white room.

Hank’s eyes widen.

“ _Motherfucker_ \- I can’t believe he told you that!”

“It’s not his fault,” Connor reasons, unsure if he should really defend Niles or stay quiet. The hurt in his chest tells him that it doesn’t matter. “He didn’t mean it like _that.”_ The words leave his mouth anyways and then he’s suddenly unable to shake the feeling of something gone terribly wrong and him being unable to determine what it is.

"I'm not supposed to be here." He continues. His words are nothing more than a whisper but they crack nonetheless, tired and sad, so terribly sad. One side of his face glows golden with the light of his LED framing his features.

The sentence feels like a knife to Hank's gut.

"What are you saying, kid? You are always welcome here. It's my home as much as yours."

"No, that's…" His face crumbles a bit, his upper lip twitches, and the light spins and spins, slow but steady. He looks at Hank. "-that's not what I meant."

Recognition dawns in Hank’s face. Connor doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t even want to have the time to try and begin to analyze it to figure out the deeper meaning of whatever it is that he’s feeling— does he agree? Is he mad at him?

He turns and continues staring at Sumo.

Connor knows himself to be working optimally, diagnostics run time and again since the moment he left the old Cyberlife tower, but the weight that lays in and upon his chest won't let up, nothing physically wrong with him but with his regulator working overtime anyways to move his blood through him, the feel of its working burning and weighing him down. The weight threatens to choke him, so one of his hands leave Sumo's soft, warm fur, and he presses against where the circle rests on his chest, pushes against it, wishing he could will the pain away with his hands, as if it were a faulty component and nothing more.

He inhales, trying to get rid of the sensation. No such luck.

"I was meant to be a test run, Hank. Only that."

Hank makes a sound, hands reaching automatically for Connor, scooting closer than he's been in some time. The sound of him feeling for him, with him, makes the burn inside of Connor increase until he feels like he's gonna burn, choke on the fumes of his own self.

"No, Con, no, don't cry-" Hank shushes him gentle and soft, no real intent to shut him up but only to comfort, palms cradling his head and rubbing thumbs over his cheeks with circular motions that spread the thick tears over Connor skin and his own hands, and if he hadn't gone and done that Connor isn't so sure he'd realize the extent of his own hurt. Even then, he still doesn’t dare to look at him in the eye.

A dam breaks in him, water to try and fizzle out the agony burning inside.

Hank pulls him to his own chest, arms now stretching to circle his neck and back, laying his head against the crook of his neck, not minding for a second the tears that stain his hoodie. He's warm and he smells nice; Connor can't help but reach to him as well and seek some semblance of comfort, hiding his face against him and inhaling, tears rolling unbidden and making his chest heave and shake.

Hank rubs his back and pulls him closer, closer—Sumo whines at being gently moved but allows it nonetheless, leaving Connor's lap to curl up at his side on the sofa— and then picks him up, moves him to place him on top of him in his lap, arms going around him completely.

Connor opens his mouth to speak but only a broken thing of a sound leaves him, and then he's choking himself on air that he doesn't need and it makes him struggle, like his body wasn't build out of steel and plastics, machinery that wasn't meant to ever know anguish. His voice should be working, not needing anything to make his modulator work, but. He shakes in Hank's arms, lets himself be held, and tries to let himself cry.

It's the ugliest feeling he's had a in a while. He feels tiny and replaceable, inconsequential in spite of everything he's done, knowing himself to be a fluke, the worst of errors; one that on top of everything was never meant to last.

Hank holds him with one hand, the other running from his back to his hair and back down again, creating a rhythm that lulls him, trying to slowly chip away at the sadness that eats away at him like a starving beast would, occasionally breaking his path to smooth down his hair—three or four times on each occasion— to then continue rubbing his back. Connor can't make out a stable pattern and can't seem to predict him. Feels like that's something that's always happening between them: Hank surprising him and Connor trying to understand his whys and hows.

It makes him wonder if he will ever get him.

"I was never meant to be alive, Hank. Not like this." His words are muffled against the hoodie.

"But you are, Connor." Hank smooths down his hair again and then kisses the top of his head, almost absently. "You are wonderfully, breathtakingly alive."

A shiver runs through him and Connor's words catch in his throat again, unsure if it's a result of the unexpectedness of the kiss or the entire situation. Maybe it’s Hank’s words are what does it.

"We'll figure it out together," he continues, and doesn't let go.

Connor nods even though he can't quite believe his words no matter how much he wants to, and his LED betrays him, gold still, speckled with red every now and then.

"Hey." Hank's squeezes him for a second, "I know it must be hard to think I'm saying anything but bullshit right now, but Con-" He sighs, leaning his head against Connor's scalp and resting his mouth there, inhaling a scent that’s so uniquely him. He speaks against his hair, lips catching against the strands, and Connor can feel the rumble of his words coming deep from his chest, the puff of his breath against his ruffled hair. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

His words are gentle and they hurt all the more because of it. Hank's gentleness is for him and only him. It makes him cry even more. His body shakes and trembles and Hank holds him through it.

"You carved your own path from the start, you became more than what your programming told you to be, against all odds. He's got _nothing_ on you. Never will—ever since you decided for yourself to save that fish. Heard about it long before you ever came to get me out of Jimmy's.

Maybe you can't tell, but you. You are so special. I know it's shitty of me to say, but I don't know what I would've done without you. What I'd do."

Connor huffs, breath tickling Hank momentarily and catching him off guard. He shakes his head slightly, still hidden against him and sniffs.

"I don't know what I'd do without you either, Hank.” It’s a whisper, but it’s enough. Hank nuzzles his hair, nods and then repeats the motions of his hand on his back on the top of his head,” I wouldn't be who I am now." There’s not much he knows for sure about himself, but _this_ he knows.

A notification flashes by his left, lets him know he’s gonna run out of tears soon. He dismisses it with a sniffle, and stays right where he is.

The pain remains, but even with hiccups from crying so badly he feels slightly better, a bit of the weight has lifted.

Ups and downs, Hank had said. Ups and downs.

He doesn’t let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it, dear friend! And fear not, I promise they'll be ok! ♥
> 
> \--
> 
> I made myself a DBH twitter so I can talk with you guys! hmu in twitter!!! @ [magpieq1693](https://twitter.com/magpieq1693)
> 
> Kudos and comments are my lifeblood, please let me know what you think!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor's relationship with Hank is slowly changing from its axis; he doesn't know how to stop thinking about him after spending the night with him.
> 
> Connor learns that having family is rough; rougher still when they don't know how to talk to you. 
> 
> He tries to let Niles into his life.

He could’ve gone back to his apartment.

It hasn’t been long, (only one hour and forty three minutes, his internal clock helpfully supplies) since he’s arrived and just a little less than that since being held by Hank, and even though he’s perfectly functional and physically fine, the bone deep exhaustion he feels tells him otherwise.

It’s a purely emotional thing, he knows, warnings flashing at the edge of his sight, making his head pulse with the words _______emotional instability_______ as if he couldn't tell on his own. His body is working optimally, but what he feels clogs his processes nonetheless, slowing down his thoughts to a trickle; an inescapable weight that keeps him feeling drained, like the ache he felt in his heart had been somatic all along, a wound he had to recover from and wait for it to scar over.

Like a human would.

So, he could've gone to his place. But.

Hank is warm beneath him and Connor finds that it’s very nice to be on his lap, even more so now that he’s been slowly falling asleep with his hands still roaming his back, as if the need to bring him comfort is somehow stronger than the biological imperative to rest. It makes him feel good and _______cared_______ for, still sprawled over him, lulled to rest there with his face hidden between the crook of Hank’s neck and his chest.

After a while, almost completely asleep and jerking to the sensation of doing so, Hank stirs and makes a sound, a sleepy affectionate rumble that begins deep from his chest that Connor can feel perfectly against his cheek, making him tingle and knotting his insides, as if Hank’s warmth could somehow become his as well, taking a hold of him from the inside, deep, deep, twisting his metal and wires and nestle there——

"Stay over.” Barely a whisper. “Ride it out." Connor can feel the edges of Hank's lips murmuring against his head, catching against his hair, and he decides that he doesn't mind it at all.

No, that he likes it. Specially like this, tears gone and dry, the hollowness of his chest new and pulsing, fresh and ready for something else, something new to take over the pain and get rid of it.

Hank's gentler near the throes of sleep, unfiltered— and while nothing escapes his lips beyond his suggestion, his body betrays him with a clarity that's impossible to ignore: there's a reverence in the way he holds Connor, in how he’s allowed him to stay between his arms—warm and soft but strong underneath— not minding in the slightest the weight of the android on top of him.

So Connor stays. There’s no choice to be made in his mind.

“Go to sleep,” he replies after a while, “let’s go.”

_Let’s._

_Us._

_Together._

Hank doesn’t reply directly but it’s remarkably simple after that, and it requires very little exchanged between them, domesticity borne from how accustomed they are to each other. Connor slides off of him, helps him up, hands chasing his body heat and looking for any excuse to get a little bit more of it, and, before he knows it, together they go.

After months of being near, getting closer becomes easier each time they try.

Hank goes to bed and Connor trails after him. He feels heavy, so heavy still, and wonders how Hank could ever have held him like that.

He turns the lights off in their wake and darkness follows after them from the living room to the bedroom, familiar and safe.

——————

Something about the day that he’s just had makes Connor want to stay on top of Hank's bed, burrowed in his comforter, surrounded forever by him; his smell, his things, his life. It makes him feels safe, like the hurts of the world can never get to him there, plush and comfortable— and for that night, they can't. He's disconnected himself from Cyberlife's network and WiFi without a second thought, too burnt out to deal with the world and its people. They all can wait for a few hours.

Hank is asleep next to him, tangled under the blankets, the delicate fabric the only thing at that moment that's keeping them apart. Connor thinks that he'd very much like being held by him still, even in his sleep; for them to have relocated from the sofa to the bed with no interruptions in their affections in between.

Well, Hank’s affection. Connor feels like he hadn’t had any chance to reciprocate; and even if he had, what would he have done? He knows the basics of it; how to hold someone, how to be held, but never at that extent. Never in someone’s lap, like he was the only one in the world who mattered in that moment.

How does someone return something like that, beyond the physicality of it?

Would Hank ever accept it, if he were to try?

At least he still has this, more than he’s had before, more than he ever thought he would.

He finds himself thinking that he would like to sleep next to him.

He doesn't have the physical needs that require sleep, his CPU being able to carry on forever without rest if need be, but he'd like to pretend for just this one time. He slows his thoughts, shuts down unnecessary programs and stills as much as he can the machinery inside of him, turning to face Hank. Connor closes his eyes and sets himself to simulate the stillness of sleep, calling upon one of his stasis settings to save energy while doing so.

He can’t really dream like a human does, but in the quiet of the room he finds that the memory of Hank's hands roaming over his back comes back to him, unbidden, and he replays it over and over again. He shouldn't think of him like that, ( _ _ _ _ _ _ _like what?,_______ he ponders) but it's nice and new and so, so good that he doesn't ever want to stop. He's not hurting anyone, remembering, and he only dares to do that, blocking every attempt his mind does to try and imagine those hands doing anything else——

He thinks briefly of him holding his face, thumbs rubbing over the skin of his cheeks, unstained of tears and flushed instead with affection and the dizzying thought of holding his interest—

Hank has really nice hands.

Connor likes that their warmth can still be felt against his skin, as if his body remembered the path of his palms against the fabric of his shirt, warmth seeping and coursing through him. He thinks-dreams about it well into the morning, and he's still doing so when Hank wakes next to him, a notification helpfully letting him know and pulling him out of the stasis.

"Hey," he says. His eyes are barely open and he has not moved from the safety of his bed. Neither has Connor.

"Hey," Connor replies.

"Feeling better?" There's the beginnings of a lazy smile in Hank's lips, and it twists Connor's insides, makes his thirium pump go a bit out of its perfectly calibrated control just by looking at him.

Connor considers this. All in all, he certainly is. The unease and the sadness are not permanently gone, but as he remembers the reasons for him being there and they flare up again, they don't feel as overwhelming as before; he can think through the haze of them, and even put them aside momentarily just to hold on to whatever this thing between them was.

"I don't know," He replies, humming low, thoughtfully. "I think so."

Hank nods. "I'm glad, kid."

Both are very reticent to move and disturb the peace that befalls upon them. It's strange. Hank keeps staring.

Connor opens his mouth to say something, CPU working fast to come up with words that could possibly convey what he's thinking; what he's thought of the entire night. He can't seem choose anything from the large repertoire of choices available to him, his voice modulator stuttering under the strain of his hesitance.

"Hank…"

Words escape him and his light turns and turns, golden like the morning light that falls between the space in the curtains.

Hank picks up on this. Of course he does.

"Don't even mention it," his hand leaves the warmth of the bed to gesture dismissively between them. "It was nothing."

Connor feels his mouth close shut.

"It's a nice change of pace, you know? It's nice to know it's not my sorry ass the only one that needs looking after."

Connor huffs out a groan, hiding his face against the pillow he's been resting on. It smells like Hank. He inhales an unnecessary breath of air, sinks into it for good measure. rA9, he never wants to move from there.

"Are we keeping a tally now?" His voice is muffled against the pillow.

Hank laughs. "God, no."

Hank's weight moves, slightly dipping the bed with him as he turns to stare at the ceiling.

"So, should I go kick his ass?"

Hank’s deflection is easily caught by Connor, who only shrugs, burrowing further into the nest he's made for himself in Hank's bed.

A notification pings in his head, helpfully letting him know that he's still disconnected from the network, and would he like to resume the connection? As if it were preposterous to ever leave it in the first place.

He begrudgingly agrees.

Another notification pings him, a string of messages waiting for him to read them; they are all a couple of hours old.

"Oh." He says.

Hank turns his head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Niles... wrote to me."

Hank tenses almost imperceptibly at his words, something that would be invisible to a human—even to most androids with sensors not as sensitive as his—but Connor can tell: he's so attuned to everything Hank that his muscles tensing with anticipation are very easily noticed. It brings him comfort, knowing that this makes Hank feel uneasy as well.

That he cares about him.

"What'd he say?" Hank's voice is still gruff with sleep, but cautious nonetheless.

Connor opens the strings of messages.

**************//************** **************23:34************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _ _ _ _ _ _ _It has been brought to my attention that my behaviour to you has been unacceptable._______

**************// 23:34************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _ _ _ _ _ _ _"Piss poor" according to the WR400 model designated "North".  
_______

**************// 23:35************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _______She made sure I sent that._______

**************//************** **************23:35************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _ _ _ _ _ _ _In any case, my social protocols tell me that this slight requires an apology._______

**************// 23:50************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _ _ _ _ _ _ _My apologies._______

**************//************** **************02:17************** RK-900 #313 248 318-20: _ _ _ _ _ _ _I hope that this hasn’t changed the potential of an association between us._______

**************// 08:15************** \- - - RK-900 #313 248 318-20 changed to Niles - - -

He tries really hard to ignore the feeling of restless anticipation and fear that had seeped through the connection in the last received message.

"Well, he's still an idiot, for starters." Connor's eyes water a little bit, but there’s no more tears to escape through his closed eyelids.

"But?" Hank's still staring, the weight of his gaze heavy on the nape of the android’s neck.

"I think he means well."

"So, are you gonna do anything about it or--?" Hank yawns. His voice is still rough with sleep. It’s extremely early for him; Connor wonders momentarily what made him wake this early.

"Should I?"

"Do you want to?"

Connor considers this. It'd be unfair to deny him an opportunity, and he knows this. It doesn’t matter how much it hurts to see him; it doesn’t matter that the closest thing he has to family is a reminder of how impermanent his existence was meant to be.

Do humans feel the same with their younger siblings? Do they feel cast aside, betrayed?

_______Useless?_ _ _ _ _ _ _

He knows, at least, that Niles is not at fault there. He's just caught between what humans wanted of him and a task, Connor supposes, that can no longer be accomplished. Instead, he now has a life he had never asked for. It’s not pleasant to think about it.

Connor turns to look at Hank, eyes barely peeking over the comforter.

"I suppose I should. It's not like he knew any better. Shouldn't he deserve a chance? Like we all had? Like the one you gave me?"

Hank looks away.

His heart thumps a little bit faster, BPMs increasing.

"You shouldn't use me as a reference for this kind of shit, Connor." He covers his face with his hand, trying to summon away the redness that had taken hold of his cheeks. "I did a pretty fucked up job of it."

Connor huffs out a laugh, hiding himself under the covers for a moment.

"Hmmmm. You _______did_______ pull a gun on me."

Hank groans, pressing harder against his face.

"Don't remind me, God. I still feel shitty about that."

Connor stifles a laugh. He supposes he _______should_______ care, but truth is that he hadn’t, not back then. It would have been certainly regrettable, but nothing Cyberlife couldn't fix.

And it’s different now, impossible to compare, and yet—

It's better.

When Connor decides to come out of his hiding spot and look at Hank again, he notices he's staring at him, eyes wide with something close to disbelief. His cheeks are redder.

"You are enjoying this!"

“I really am.” Connor laughs this time.

Definitely better.

Hank is considerably less sleepy after being embarrassed, and he grumbles something while kicking at the sheets a little bit. Connor doesn’t need to look at him to know that his temperature had risen a tick after feeling like that.

Ever so wise, he chooses not to comment anything on it.

He should also begin to move. The quietness and calm of the sanctuary that they inadvertently had made in Hank’s bed has begun to go away.

It’s decided then.

He loses nothing with attempting a second chance at connecting with Niles. Even considering what could go wrong, the potential to gain something good, to make a difference and help him are too great to pass.

He messages him back.

**************// 08:27************** Connor: Your apologies need some improvement, Niles.

**************// 08:27************** Niles: _______So I've been already told._______

**************// 08:27************** Connor: May I see you again today? I would like to start things anew.

**************// 08:28************** Connor: I think it'd be extremely regrettable for us to lose our chance to...

He hesitates a little bit. Should he say it? That he considers him like family? That they could be, eventually?

His thoughts have always been faster than his control, and they betray him before he even notices, messages sent already with the content of his contemplations.

**************// 08:28************** Connor: For us to become family.

**************// 08:29************** Connor: Or something alike.

He clicks his tongue, annoyed at himself. Clumsy. He tries to backtrack.

**************// 08:29************** Connor: It doesn’t have to be family.

**************// 08:29************** Connor: Forget I said anything.

**************// 08:30************** Connor: Unless you want, of course.

The messages drip with emotion, and he tries not to care. (He cares so, so much. It’s terrifying.)

Minutes go by, slowly trickling by. Hank picks up on his distress and pats his head; once, twice for good measure, and lets go when the LED in Connor’s forehead blinks yellow.

**************// 08:35************** Niles: _______I think it would be extremely beneficial for us to be closer._______

**************// 08:35************** Niles: _______Considering that we are the only ones of our kind._______

“Like family” goes unsaid.

Connor can feel it regardless.

——————

They settle on seeing each other on a couple of hours.

Connor says goodbye to Hank as he's about to hop in the shower. It's a hasty goodbye, but he thinks he rathers that than chancing it and making it awkward between them with another hug. He's had plenty, and the mere idea of ruining that for himself makes him extra cautious.

Still, it's not so bad. He's told Hank of his plans and the lieutenant has made him promise to let him know how it goes.

He adds that to the list of things that mean that he cares.

So, Hank leaves him to take a shower, but it's still extremely early in the morning for someone like him, and so Connor sets himself to feed Sumo and sneakily make him breakfast.

It's a Sunday and a lazy one at that, and he feels like it's the least he can do for him after imposing on so much of his time.

——————

He gets a text while he's in a taxi, well on his way to the old Cyberlife tower.

**************// 10:17************** Hank 10:17: _______eggos AND a kale smoothie?_______

**************// 10:17************** Hank 10:17 am: _______you are killing me_______

**************// 10:18************** Connor 10:18 am: Please redirect all your complaints to Cyberlife's customer service. Beep.

**************// 10:18************** Hank 10:18 am: _______smartass_______

**************// 10:18************** Connor 10:18 am: Beeeeep.

——————

Now that there’s less anxiety forcing Connor’s mind to an almost complete nervous breakdown, he can take in the changes that have been done to the tower and the little island that houses it.

With Jericho and its unrelenting workforce, the frontis of the old Cyberlife tower has changed; there’s nothing more efficient than a couple hundred androids that have an idea set in their minds: all traces of Cyberlife’s brand has been removed, and the name _______New Jericho_______ has taken its stead.

It’s extremely nice to see a place that amounted their existences to nothing more than a faulty product dismantled and reshaped into something _______good_______.

North catches up to him as he’s making his way in the courtyard, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, hidden amongst the many androids there.

“Took you awhile to drag yourself back here.” She smacks his shoulder playfully, looking positively _______radiant_______ , the safety and change of the place bringing out the best of her.

Connor smiles at her, her enthusiasm contagious.

“Well, I _______did_______ bolt out of this place, did I not? I’m trying to keep some consistency in my life.”

North chuckles.

“He’s a piece of work.” She loops her arm around Connor’s own, like the dainty little lady she isn’t. The contrast is nice. “But once you get past his terribly social protocols, well, he’s not half bad.”

She leads him through the corridors and up the elevators he needs to go; She explains that Niles is no longer in the basement of the tower, having instead been given a room he could use for himself.

Connor hums, apprehension clear in his face

“He was a real mess when you left. Not that he’d say anything, but.”

“I should have stayed.”

“And have _______two_______ messes?” North stares at him, sighing. “No, it was for the best. You needed to… do whatever it is that you did, and he needed time as well. I’d say it went as good as it could’ve gone.”

Connor can feel some colour go up to his cheeks. North notices. Of course she does.

“What _______did_______ you do, by the way?”

“I went to see the Lieutenant.” He refuses to acknowledge the heat in his cheeks.

“That old man? Huh.” Her tone of voice is extremely knowing. “What’chu do with him?”

He _______knows_______ that his face is betraying the small semblance of nonchalance he’s trying to aspire to.

“I, uh.” He looks away, embarrassed. “I sat on his lap and cried, alright? It’s not a big deal.”

Connor closes his eyes when North starts cooing at him. It’s too much for him. He’s sure his face is a beacon for everyone to see his embarrassment.

“Oh, come on.”

“Ooooooooooooh my god, Connor!” She laughs, tugging at his arm. “Kinky!”

He snorts. “You are _______terrible._______ ”

“And you like me anyways.”

“That I do.”

“ _ _ _ _ _ _ _Just_______ like you like your sweet, garbage can on fire mess of a Lieutenant.”

“Oh, forget I said anything. I don’t like you anymore.”

“Sure, Connor.” She pats him on the back a couple of times, not believing him for a second. “Sure.”

——————

Connor can’t begin to thank North enough for the distraction she provided to him on their way to Niles’ door. He hadn’t noticed, and because of that it had really worked— even if it had been at the expense of his very confused heart. Now that she’s gone off to continue her work somewhere else in the tower, he can feel with dizzying intensity the anxiety that had taken hold of him coming back with a vengeance.

The thought of turning tail are extremely tempting, but his hands knock on the door all the same.

Niles lets him in after a couple of seconds and there is no longer time for Connor to escape; not when Niles towers easily over him both in size and in presence, steel eyes staring down at him and giving away nothing.

“Hello, Niles.” His voice is shaky at best. He feels minuscule.

Niles doesn’t say a thing, but steps aside and extends a hand in invitation to let him in, movements precise and fluid enough to look human, but wasting no motions in between, efficient to a fault.

His brother stares and Connor hopes by rA9 that whatever he sees in him is enough, fears a little bit the unerring gaze that rests on him, like he could somehow disappoint him just by speaking.

There’s a charging dock, an empty bookcase and a sofa. It’s uncomfortably barren and Connor fights the urge to fidget with the coin that never leaves his pocket.

He sits instead.

Niles follows, the couch sagging a bit with both their weights.

“Look--” He starts.

Niles interrupts him.

"I'm not… good with words." He’s not looking at him, instead choosing to focus on the floor.

Connor clamps his mouth shut.

Niles hands tense where they rest on his thighs, opening and stretching until his fingers tremble with the strain and then closing them into fists again. He repeats the motions several times. His face reveals nothing.

The motion makes Connor think of the basic tests for motor function that Cyberlife made them perform to check their connections and nervous responses.

Niles’ fist relaxes, finally, and he extends his right hand towards Connor, skin giving away space for the white chassis of his silicone plastic.

His hands are bigger.

His LED remains blue.

Connor's own hand does the same, inertia and curiosity overriding his unease, but refraining still to reach for him, his anxiety trumping everything.

"Please." Niles pleads, voice still as unaffected.

Connor takes his hand.

——————

Niles shows him glimpses of his life: his very small, sterile life.

Waking up to see machines propping him up; looking at his own body and finding himself to be missing, incomplete: legs still unattached, hands out of reach.

Him going over and over calibrations of motor functions, of emotional endurance: of bearing test after test (after test, after test, after test…) that rid of every chance of deviancy within him.

Of the little information being fed to him; still nothing but a prototype, disconnected to the world outside of Cyberlife's underbelly and only graced by Amanda's visits every so often.

Of her telling him what would become of him. What would be expected.

More machines.

More tests.

Darkness for what seems like eternity.

Waking up again to see Connor's big brown eyes staring up at him, trying and failing to masquerade his feelings for him. The shock, the hurt.

Knowing why Connor gets up and leaves after a while, mumbling a _______I’ll see you later_______ and Niles not being sure that he’s meant it.

Knowing why he drove him away but being unable to fix it, to make up for it. Not knowing how.

Feeling like his own chest is about to cave in on itself; his own desperate thoughts to try and figure out what is wrong, running diagnostic after diagnostic and finding nothing _______wrong_______ but everything feeling so terribly bad.

Feeling.

_______Feeling._ _ _ _ _ _ _

Realizing he’s not supposed to be doing _______that_______. Thinking that it must’ve been test and knowing that he’s already failed it. Wondering that if it was indeed a test, why nobody was wiping his protocols and memory so he could start over?

Why, why, why.

Hurting. Feeling loss, like he’s missed something tremendous and being unable to figure out why.

_______Why wasn’t anyone wiping him already?_______ Let him start over; let him get it right the next time.

Being aimless. No directives for him, nothing to accomplish.

Being finally connected to the red; figuring out _______why_______.

And then.

The glaring sense of having done terribly and being unable to fix his own wrongs, mistakes being the one and only thing he’s ever made for himself in his life; there’s guilt, guilt, overwhelming guilt that he has never felt before and never wants to feel again but can't even begin to fathom the possibility of existing without it; like it'll be a part of him forever and then fearing that it'll be, that there's not escaping it and it'll be with him forever—

Connor grips his hand tighter, maneuvers to hug him with one arm, pulling him as close as physically possible without letting their connection go.

"Easy," he says aloud, voice thick with tears unshed. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

He’s desperately trying to convey the same feeling over the link joining them. "It's alright now. It’s gonna be fine. I’m here.

We’ll figure it out.”

This hurts too, clear as day in their connection, but it’s not the same kind of pain. This, Niles welcomes; holds it closer to himself and leaves it where the root of his consciousness begins.

Connor does too; silently, they both agree that family hurts.

Niles doesn’t want to speak, and for now he doesn’t need to. Instead of words, his thoughts pass, unfiltered, through the connection that joins him and Connor through their clasped hands.

_______Seems like, somehow, we were both made to unmake one another._ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connor agrees.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore Connor and Niles' relationship. How it would be if Niles were just as emotional as Connor (maybe even more, considering for how young he is) but couldn't express it at all due to his programming?
> 
> I hope it delivers.
> 
> Also, I stan North getting all the help she needs to get better and live her best, healthier life!!! she's had that here: she's gonna be fine. This is not her story so I'm not gonna delve into that much, but man. Do I wanna write it.
> 
> Aaaaaanyways! 
> 
> Sorry this took so long, everyone! Uni sucker-punched me into working desperately and I haven't been the same since.
> 
> I hope you guys like it! Kudos and comments are like the lunch money that life keeps shakin out of me- please give me some! it motivates me so much to continue this.
> 
> If you are interested, come yell at me in twitter! @ [magpieq1693](https://twitter.com/magpieq1693)


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